Almost Delusionally
by Sohara von Salienta
Summary: Loneliness can drive people to act almost delusionally, but then again, so can love. Sometimes, the two go hand in hand.


_This was originally meant to be heartbreaking and sweet and things, but I think it ended up being really, really stupid instead. However, here it is, I suppose. Flame if you want to; I will completely understand and not be offended in the least. It takes place before _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ does; it's during the year of marriage that the book does not go into. Otherwise…hm, not much to say, I think, other than that I hope I'll be able to come up with other vignettes that are quite a bit better than this._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sir Percy, Marguerite Blakeney, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, etc.; that belongs to Baroness Orczy. However, I do own Lord and Lady Debenham, Mycroft Lambertin, and the miniature plot of this thing. No money is being made and no copyrights are being infringed. Steal what I've invented and…and…and nothing will happen to you, believe it or not, because I will be vaguely flattered that you liked it enough to steal it._

**Almost Delusionally**

"Goodnight, my dear," Marguerite Blakeney smiled gaily, kissing Lady Debenham goodbye after a well-attended and fairly prestigious dinner-party. It was quite late: eleven o'clock, but Marguerite stood cheerfully upright and jubilant until Lord Debenham stowed the slight and frail blonde girl safely away in her carriage with the curtains drawn. The four brown horses bore them away quickly; likely little Elaine was drooping with weariness as well, and longed to get home. The wheels struck a small, pale yellow pebble sharply and flung it into a carefully planted configuration of roses, and Marguerite watched dully as the stone flew directly into one of the largest pink-and-yellow roses, knocking most of its petals to the ground.

It was autumn, and the air was cooler than it had been for months; refreshing breezes suffused with the heavy scent of flowers past their prime had floated through her hair all evening. Now, they urged Marguerite's face into less forced and controlled lines, and she almost sighed as the muscles in her face finally relaxed.

Her hand fell from the sculptured marble railing, and she swept back inside, shutting the door firmly. Clinks of glass on china echoed through the house; in the salon, the servants were clearing away the wine-glasses, decanters, bottles, and dainty little plates that had held comically intricate fruit sculptures. Footstools and chairs were pushed out of place, someone had left a cloak lined with peach-colored velvet lying on a small walnut table, and a black mark glared up impudently from the floor, where Mycroft Lambertin had lost his balance and gone skidding directly into Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. It had all been most amusing; after all, a supper-party was not really complete until old Mycroft had done something clumsy. Last week, at a small gathering at the Argaunts', he had twirled his cane too wildly and knocked his wife's champagne all over her newly ordered bodice.

Suddenly feeling incomprehensibly dull, Marguerite turned towards the staircase, lifting her skirts with one hand and refusing to lean on the banister with the other. And, for what had to be the twentieth night in a row, she dreaded going to her room for a reason she could not explain, except that a heavy, disconsolate mood swept over her every time she entered it just before going to bed. Tonight was likely to be no exception.

"Demme, m'dear, you're still awake, are you?"

Marguerite, already at the top of the stairs, whipped around to see her husband ascending the stairs after her, elegant and debonair in perfectly tailored cream satin, delicately embroidered with gold thread. It was strange—the stupidity that characterized the man was absent from his gait just then, and he reminded her more of a cantering horse than the bland sloth that he was.

"I could not very well fall asleep in the midst of our guests, could I?" she asked archly, tossing her head and shrugging off weariness for the moment. It would be better to talk to him, to delay that inevitable, disheartening humor that her doorway seemed to find amusement in dropping onto her shoulders every time she passed underneath it.

"Oh, yes!" he laughed, the slow sound giving the lie to his walk. "Zounds!…la, but they would have missed you, what? Cleverest woman in Europe, an't you, m'dear?"

"Lord Debenham said just this evening that he thought so, too," she shrugged. A sudden desire to bait her husband took hold of her, and she dimpled. "He thinks I am wasted on you, Percy."

"Does he, now?" was Percy Blakeney's only response; he half-concealed a yawn behind a womanly, white hand.

"Oh, yes," Marguerite said airily, playing with a long curl that rested on her collarbone. "He says you're far too common for me. And that you had done nothing to even remotely prove yourself worthy of a wife like myself." She beamed indulgently. "He told me that I would have been better off as the wife of a poor scribbler with scarce a penny to his name."

"Yes, interesting, what?" he returned vaguely, and Marguerite was childishly tempted to kick him; nothing she ever said seemed to break through that man's thick, sluggish skull. "Best be off to bed now, m'dear. Zooks, it's late, what?"

Marguerite sighed; her hand fell as the coquettish and contemptuous smile drooped. "It is," she assented. And then, impulsively, she placed a hand on Percy's arm, willing him to look down at her. "Lend me your arm, Sir Percy, just until my chambers."

He had almost started when she touched him, but the vacant stare he gave her told her, unerringly, just how much she mattered to him. Still, she hoped for a miniature miracle—but then, of course, he opened his mouth.

"Demme, Lady Blakeney, what would you do with my arm? I can't very well detach it, don't you know."

A hot anvil struck Marguerite behind the eyes, and she withdrew her hand hastily, passionately thankful for the powder that hid her hot cheeks. Not daring to unclench her jaw, she turned her back on her husband and swept towards her room, indignant vanity keeping her chin lifted and her eyes dry.

As expected, the minute she shut the door, the feeling of utter melancholy hit her head-on; her eyes pricking, she leaned against the wall, head thrown back, and breathed heavily, determined not to cry. He had never been this discourteous to her before; he had gracefully ignored her and left her to herself, but he had never been so—so _boorish_. No matter what, he was her _husband_; no form of decorum or human feeling would let a man be so _harsh_.

Taking one last deep breath to clear her obnoxiously red and swollen eyelids, she removed her slippers and rang the bell for her maid, who appeared just minutes later to find her lady seated in front of her vanity, clearly in no temper to chat.

Silently and skillfully, the girl unhooked the rosy pink gown with its swirls of gold, unlaced her corset, and placed a lace-decked nightshift over the end of the bed. Curtsying deferentially after she poured water into the basin on the wash-stand, she withdrew, leaving Marguerite to herself.

After the maid retreated, Marguerite glared harshly at herself, at the unquestionably pretty and equally unquestionably unhappy face that glowered back at her from the all too truthful mirror. A lump in her throat, she unclasped her necklace and ear-rings, slid the large matching ring from the middle finger on her right hand, and unfeelingly dumped the mass of pink topaz into her jewelry-box.

She hadn't bargained for this, she thought dismally, removing the pink jeweled flower from her hair and uncharacteristically not noticing that her twitching fingers slightly bent the gold setting as they violently clenched themselves into a fist. Hairpin after hairpin fell onto her lap, onto the floor, and onto the top of the vanity, but, to all appearances, she did not hear their soft, clinking jingles.

When she had first married Percy, she had thought he loved her. She had married him because he loved her as much as she had thought he did; every time he looked at her, she could feel an intense, longing, beautiful adoration surrounding her. It had felt so _right_ to be loved by him, and she felt so peaceful around him; she trusted him, she wanted to rest in his arms on cold days, and she wanted to lean back at night and feel the heartbeat of someone that loved her unquestionably and unconditionally. She had believed, just a few short months ago, that Percy Blakeney was that man, and she would never have dreamed that that loving, reverent, devoted English gentleman would have proven himself to be such a—such a _lout, _such a rude, _cruel_—

Shaking with the effort of holding back her tears, Marguerite yanked her brush so violently through her hair that it broke one of the smaller hairpins that was still lurking inside the curls. The cultured, unnatural, _imitation_ curls—

Another hairpin broke, and the brush was starting to amass quite a few strands of hair that should not have left her head for years to come. What was the _use_, she ruminated furiously, of bothering with all of this—heating hot tongs to form fashionable curls, caking powder onto her face, decking herself with jewels even on the heels of her shoes—it didn't matter, it never would. Nothing she did since her marriage had touched her husband in any way—_nothing_. He was so expressionless around her that it was like talking to an unpainted canvass, and just as satisfying.

The brush dropped from her hand, and two tears slid down her cheeks, unattractively caking the face powder. She felt so _worthless_ when he looked at her like that—when he let himself remain so indifferent to her…as if she was good for nothing except as a manikin to ply with gemstones and gold and silks—and, _damn_ it all, he couldn't have married her just because she was pretty. If he had, he would at least praise her now and then on the arrangement of her hair, or the style of her gown, or—oh, only on one of those things that men saw in their ladies, those things that were infinitely small and that love created, but that mattered so much more than expensive presents and lavish compliments.

Once, after her engagement but before her marriage, she had slept badly, and when Percy came to call at her apartment, there were faint, grey, sunken rings around her eyes that she was bitterly ashamed of…and then, then—! She had apologized daintily for her appearance, and he had reached out a beautiful hand and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. All he had noticed, he whispered, was that there was an exquisitely touching glint of starlight in her eyes.

"_Dieu!_" Marguerite muttered, and, the next moment, her head had fallen onto her arms, and she was sobbing helplessly, feeling so desperately lonely that she felt herself wanting to rush to Percy, to bury her face in his shoulder, to clasp her arms around his neck and to hope that she mattered enough to him so that the hated indifference that radiated from him would break down…oh, _all_ she wanted, just now, was for him to embrace her. She would have willingly given every worldly possession she owned, just for a hint that she was worth something to someone, _anyone…_

"_Percy_," she whispered weakly, "oh, God, Percy!"

But she stayed in her room, taking the unnecessary precaution of locking the door, so that he would not chance to stop by and see that she had been crying. She couldn't let him know how lonely she was; if he did find out and if she saw that he still did not care…oh, she would have welcomed his hatred!—for that would have meant that he still felt _something_ for her…but this bland, apathetic unconcern was breaking her heart more painfully than even she knew.

In the garden, Sir Percy was wandering around slowly, but not because of dawdling stupidity. Marguerite's beautiful, beautiful face kept shining before him in the darkness, as did the struck look that slanted across it when he had shaken her off. God knows he had not wanted to leave her like that, but his heart had leaped so painfully when she touched him that it triggered a series of warnings that flashed simultaneously across his eyelids—if he showed her that he loved her as much as he still did, what couldn't she do with that knowledge? She _had_ betrayed St. Cyr, after all, and his own life was not the only one at risk if he dared to trust her again. Nineteen other men's lives and families were on the line as well. And therefore…

Therefore, he was keeping himself as distant from her as he could. It was the only thing he could do. And, very often, just as it did this night, it seemed like the worst thing he could do.

Unwittingly, he found himself facing the arrangement of the yellow-and-pink roses, one of which was stubbornly lifted above the rest. Sir Percy stared down at the tall flower, the colors of which were so curiously similar to the gown and jewels Marguerite had worn that evening. Suddenly, he started crying in the most unmanly and most desperate way conceivable; he fell to his knees in front of the flower, shoulders quaking as if a hurricane had passed him by, whispering her name almost delusionally.

Inside the rose, the light buttercup-colored pebble that had knocked the outside petals away rested in the centre of the flower. The rose had no more power to push the stone out of its heart than the stone did to move itself, even if it had wanted to.

LA FIN


End file.
